


some things you'll do for money and some you'll do for fun

by roachpatrol



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Complicated Relationships, M/M, PWP, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 09:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10660107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol
Summary: “Technician 2160,” Mike says, hauling the guy up by the scruff of his shirt. “You’re out of bounds. Please cooperate with me in returning to your assigned station in Detroit Deluxe, and—”“Fuck you,” the techie pants, high and hoarse, and wrenches away. He gets two steps and Mike trips him.





	some things you'll do for money and some you'll do for fun

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to laughingstones for the beta and birchbow for the encouragement!

The techie doesn’t seem to notice Mike is there, too absorbed in his screens. Mike’s not any kind of expert but they don’t seem regulation: too many odd shapes, bright colors, personalized-looking edges and angles. That green is all wrong for Deluxe. 

When he eases forward into the empty garage, his boot tip kicks some small metal thing and it skitters noisily away across the floor. The techie’s head snaps up at that, overgrown bangs parting long enough for Mike to catch a glint of electric blue—a modification, his target’s _dangerous_ —before the kid turns to run.

Mike abandons stealth and charges, clotheslining the renegade techie before he can quite get his feet underneath him. The guy goes down hard, tumbling backwards over some chunk of a car, and Mike winces a little. That had to hurt. But he vaults over the machine and grabs one of the techie’s wrists, then the other, pinning them up behind his back and snapping cuffs on before the guy can collect himself enough to struggle. Mike doesn’t want to find out firsthand just what kind of firepower an augmented renegade as big as this guy could be packing in arms like those. This is supposed to be an easy mission, a minimum of fuss or damage to either of them.

“Technician 2160,” Mike says, hauling the guy up by the scruff of his shirt. “You’re out of bounds. Please cooperate with me in returning to your assigned station in Detroit Deluxe, and—”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” the techie pants, high and hoarse, and wrenches away. He gets two steps and Mike trips him.

“I’d prefer it if you kept your language civil,” Mike says, mildly, and goes to collect him again.

“ _FUCK YOU,_ ” the techie shouts at him, and tries to kick. Mike evades the first few strikes, and then the techie pulls something he wasn’t expecting, a cadet move, something like what Mike would have used: ducks down, feints towards Mike’s legs, then rams his shoulder up into Mike’s jaw. Mike’s teeth clack painfully together and he staggers back, grunting—the techie hesitates a minute too long, wide-eyed and worried, and misses his chance to break free.

“I—sorry! Are you—”

Mike grabs him again, shakes him roughly. “Hey, none of that,” he says, sternly. Surreptitiously, he checks that he didn’t bite his tongue or anything, but he’s fine. The techie’s practically hanging from his grip now, but Mike doesn’t trust him a bit. “Okay, buddy, are you gonna cooperate, now?” 

“I, uh, uh—w-what—what if I _don’t?_ ”

This renegade’s got fire. Mike can respect that. “My orders are to bring you back up to Deluxe,” he says. “No one said what kinda shape you had to be in when you got there.” He pauses, tries on a mean look, a hard, nasty smirk. “I don’t think anyone even said you had to be _alive_.”

The tech gives a little whimper. “Oh, man. D-don’t—we—we don’t have to go, uh, to go that far, if you—I’ll—I’ll be good.” 

“Good,” Mike echoes, and pulls until the techie’s back on his feet. “How far we’re gonna be going’s entirely up to you, buddy.” Of course, the minute Mike relaxes, the kid hammers his heel into the side of Mike’s knee and books it, startlingly fast, further into the rebel hideout. Mike staggers, hissing with the bright sweet sting of pain, then collects himself and runs after his target.

He catches up with the guy somewhere in the colorful, twisting maze of a base, and rams him hard face-first up against the wall. 

“Buddy, you’re making me kind of _mad_ , here,” he growls, and feels the techie tremble against him. He shoves a little harder. “I thought maybe you’d wanna make things _easier_ on yourself, huh?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—I’ll be good now!”

“You know, somehow I kind of doubt that,” Mike remarks, and pulls back enough to turn the guy around, kick his legs out. It’s a lot easier to glare intimidatingly into someone’s eyes when they’re kneeling at your feet. He enjoys the way the techie swallows, looks up at him with those inhuman eyes bright and wide and laser-focused.

“Now,” he says slowly, and slides one of his boots against the inside of the techie’s leg, just above the knee. He presses the guy’s legs open a little further, and watches as a brilliant flush blooms over pale cheeks. “...Now. Maybe I want some more, uh, assurances, right? That you’re gonna behave.”

The renegade swallows again. His shoulders flex as he pulls on the cuffs, testing them, as he shifts his weight uneasily. “Wh-what, uh, what kind of, uh.”

Mike lets one of his hands rest on his belt. “Well, you’re the genius, here,” he says, starting to smile. “Maybe you should figure that out.”

The thing is, Mike’s _never_ done this before. He’s heard other guys joking about it, crude and self-satisfied, but he’s never wanted to. It’s not _right._ But... the way this techie looks at him, the way those glowing eyes drag down his body, fix between his legs, flicker back up to his face, the way the techie _licks his lips_ , face pink, mouth pink, Mike... wants this. He wants it a lot. It doesn’t feel very wrong at all.

“You’re really into this,” Mike says. Just making a final check—this _isn’t_ wrong, is it, if the techie likes it too, right? It’s fine. They’re both fine. He cards his fingers through the tech’s overgrown blond hair and makes a fist, pulling until the kid whimpers and nods. “...Aren’t you? You want this.”

“Y-yeah, I—hhah, nnh, sorry—” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Mike says. “It suits me just fine.” He pulls on the fistful of hair, watching the tension shudder through the techie’s long throat, his broad shoulders. He’s attracted to Mike, it’s obvious, even when he tries to pull back against the wall, he _wants_ this. It makes Mike feel powerful in a way he’s never quite felt before in his life.

He flicks open the clasp of his belt, eases it loose. The renegade stops even testing the fit of the cuffs, riveted, when Mike pulls his pants down below his hips and frees up his half-hard dick.

“Got any ideas yet?” Mike teases him, and gives himself a slow, luxuriating stroke.

“I’m, um...” the kid says, licking his lips again, glancing up into Mike’s face. “...Yeah. Can I... uh, can I... help you with that...?” 

“I’d be much obliged, citizen,” Mike says, enjoying the juxtaposition of such a Deluxe politeness in this dirty, illicit situation. He pulls the kid’s hair, almost gently, until the guy can get his mouth on his dick. Then he needs his other hand to brace against the wall, because— 

“Oh, _wow_ ,” he gasps. 

The techie swallows all around him and he shudders, barely biting back a pathetic whimper in time. He’s a cadet, a commander, one of Kane Co’s best and brightest. He does _not_ make dumb noises because some filthy criminal renegade just deepthroated him.

It goes on for a staggeringly long time before the techie finally pulls back and gasps for air. Mike stares down at him, stunned, and the techie grins up at him, lips flushed dark.

“This your first time out of the box, _cadet_?” he says, mockingly. Mike’s fist clenches in his hair, pulls sharply, and he cuts off with a breathless squeak.

“I’m not here for your _insolence_ ,” Mike growls. One of Kane’s phrases, commanding, dangerous. “I’m here because _you_ wanted to make amends for your poor behavior.” Another sharp tug, and the techie actually whimpers. “So far you’re not doing a very good job.”

“Okay, okay, okay okay let me—let me just—I can, nnh— _please_ ,” he strains back towards Mike’s dick and Mike lets him struggle for a bit, watches him pull against the cuffs and Mike’s grip and how that makes his breath come shorter, his hips jerk. Mike shifts his boot forward, up along his tense leg, until his shin’s pressed right into the techie’s crotch.

“Oh, god,” the kid whimpers. “Oh, m-my god, _ohh._ ” There’s tears in the corners of his eyes. Mike shifts his weight back and forth a few times, rubbing against the hardness tenting his dark, nonregulation jeans, and enjoys the surrender on the renegade’s face.

“Which one of us is the _freak_ , huh?” he asks, the insult ugly and uncomfortable in his mouth, but it makes the techie shudder and gasp. He can feel how he’s pressing up against Mike’s leg, rubbing himself against Mike in furtive, helpless-looking jerks. “Yeah, thought so. At least I keep myself clean. You’re the one who’s come down here to lurk around in the, the—dirt, and the dark, and suck off anyone who comes your way. You probably do this sick stuff for fun, huh?”

 The technician whimpers incoherently.

“ _Well?_ ” Mike demands, shaking him by his overgrown hair. He can see a glitter of light off the guy’s tears and it makes something cold and sharp turn over in his chest but the guy’s _into it_ , he’s so obviously into it, his dick hard and hot enough in his wrong-colored jeans that Mike can feel the warmth against his skin.  

“Yeah,” the tech gasps. “I—y-yeah, _shit_ , dude, ahh, fuck—”

Mike shakes him again. “Again. _Without_  foul language.”

“Fu—aa _aah,_ okay, okay, yes, okay—”

“ _Okay_ ,” Mike says, deliberately cold. “Now, let’s see less disrespect from you, _Technician_ , and more action.” When he loosens his grip on the kid’s hair, the kid pretty much dives for him, swallowing him down almost frantically. He sucks like a pro, Mike thinks, like someone who went into the wrong field of work entirely.

There’s trying not to sound like an idiot in front of a tough Motorcity renegade who has had like a whole lot of a sex before, apparently, and then there’s just—not having much of a choice. The techie bobs his head in a fast, relentless rhythm, sucking hard, and Mike gasps despite himself, makes an embarrassing high noise of pleasure. He shudders, trying to hold it back, trying to last for longer, but it’s no use. The techie does something obscene and hot and brilliant with his tongue and Mike comes, moaning, braced against the wall on one trembling arm. It’s like his brain just got sucked out, along with more than half his soul, and the guy’s _still going_.

“Nnh,” Mike goes, and pulls him back. He’s still shivering, his grip on the techie gone loose and weak. “Nnno, it’s okay, it’s—that’s good, dude. Ahh, wow...” He takes a step back, almost stumbling, and tries to pack himself back into his pants. His hands don’t really want to work on his belt.  

“You alright, there?” the techie asks, his voice warm with amusement. Mike gives him a dazed, grateful smile before he quite remembers himself and turns his attention back to smartening up his uniform.

There’s just a flicker from the corner of his eye: he thinks to look just a bare second too late. The renegade’s shifted his weight to the side enough that he can lash out one of those long legs, hook his foot around Mike’s bruised knee and sweep it out from under him. Mike hits the ground hard, breathless with startled pain.

“Sorry, bro,” the renegade says. “You wanted to know how far we were going—well, I’m not going _anywhere,_ yet!” He’s up on his feet already, bouncing lightly from one to the other. By the time Mike rolls over the tech’s gone, a blur of dark clothes disappearing down a darker hallway. Mike thinks about saying a rude word, and bites it back. 

Well, if the techie’s asking to get his butt handed to him, that’s what he’s gonna get. Mike gets back to his feet, testing his knee carefully: it moves freely, but every step sends a hot, distracting pulse of pain up his leg. It won’t slow him down in a fight, but it isn’t gonna make a game of hide and seek any easier. 

The base down this way is too dim, painted monsters glaring at him from the walls, seeming to twist and skulk in the shadows behind him. He tries the doors as he passes them, but most are locked. Those that aren’t show no sign of the renegade. Has he already left the base, run away? Is he behind a locked door? Is he doubling back around to ambush Mike from behind? He’s obviously resourceful.

Finally, a door that opens on to lights: colorful screens hanging everywhere, dark blue clothes scattered across the floor, an unmade cot in one corner. The renegade’s bunkroom. Mike takes a cautious step forward. A grip like warm iron clamps on his wrist, wrenches it up behind his back.

“Hey!” he yelps, and gets his _freakin knee_ kicked _again_ , so he groans and staggers. His other arm’s caught up when he tries to throw a punch: there’s an unyielding click.

He’s been cuffed with his own dang handcuffs.

 _Shoot_. He has a bare second to realize that this could be really, really bad before he’s dropped face-down onto the cot.

“Well, now what should _I_ do with you?” the techie asks. When Mike cranes his head around enough to look back over his shoulder, the guy is doing a _lot_ better at looking mean and dangerous than Mike thinks he himself managed. He struggles, trying to get his knees braced against the cot enough to jump back up or at least roll over, and the techie puts his foot down very deliberately on the back of Mike’s knee, grinding his heel down into the bruise. Mike gasps at the sharp throb of pain and the techie grins.

“I wonder if I could get you off again just with this,” he says, as if to himself, and presses harder.

Mike grits his teeth and tries not to make any more noise, steels himself strong and angry. “You’d better— _nhah,_ let me _go_ , or, or else—” 

“Else _what_ ?” the techie asks. He eases up on Mike enough that Mike almost relaxes, then darts forward and grabs his own fistful of Mike’s hair, pins his head down against the bed. Bent over like this, their thighs slot together. The renegade’s still hard, and Mike is—Mike isn’t, yet, but there’s—there’s definitely a _yet_ going on. He can feel the renegade’s warm breath against his ear, and thinks, kind of crazily, that the guy could just—bite him, really hard, like this, draw blood.  

“I could show you some Motorcity hospitality,” the renegade says. “You know, all that freaky _dark_ and _dirty_ stuff. Unless you wanna cut and run early, that is.” 

Mike hesitates. “Is it—is it gonna hurt?” he asks. “Are you gonna, uh...” 

“Well, I guess that’s up to you, buddy,” the techie says, voice sing-song. Mocking again. One of his hands is feeling up Mike’s ass, squeezing and rubbing. Lips press gently just under his ear, infuriatingly soft and delicate.

“I can, nnh— _take_ it,” Mike says fiercely. “I can handle anything you dish out, freak!” 

“Then I guess it’s gonna hurt a lot, _cadet_ ,” the renegade says, and slaps his ass hard enough to burn.  

Mike gasps, and the techie laughs, then reaches around to unfasten his belt and drag his pants halfway down his legs, then kneels on them so Mike’s stuck. There’s a strange rustling and hissing sound that resolves, abruptly, into a smooth pressure against Mike’s throat.

“ _What,”_ Mike demands, trying to duck away from the belt. “I—no, hey!”

The techie pauses. “I’d like to go hands-free here, bro,” he says. “But if you wanna run away, I could let you up right now...”

Mike should say yes. He should beg to be let up, and then like, get the drop on the guy, reverse their positions, _take_ what he wants—take the guy back to Deluxe, finish his mission. Instead, he’s aching with anticipation, his heart pounding, and he wants whatever’s going to happen next no matter how bad it’s gonna be. He doesn’t duck away from the belt again, when the renegade fastens it around his throat, and draws it tight. The trailing end he ties to part of the bedframe—there’s hardly enough room for Mike to turn his head, let alone pull up off the mattress. His dick’s definitely hard, now, throbbing in time with his racing heart.    

“Oh, just _look_ at you,” the techie says, and his tone is frankly admiring. It makes Mike want to preen, like an idiot. He’s really, really, definitely for sure an idiot, to be in this position now, to like it so much, to arch up into this clever renegade’s touch as he strokes down Mike’s back and across his ass. So far nothing’s hurt since the last slap, the guy just keeps petting him, soft and deliberate, lighting up all his nerves with anticipation for a blow that doesn’t come. Mike shifts his weight around, grits his teeth, tries to breathe steady.

“W-when—” he starts to say, and the techie slaps him, stunningly hard. “ _Ah!”_ After that first long pause he hardly lets up, hitting Mike in a steady, brutal rhythm unlike anything Mike’s ever endured in the Cadets. No one’s ever beat on him in the Cadets, no one could ever touch him, but here—now—it’s overwhelming, it whites him out with the sensation. He’s dimly aware that he’s lost his composure and is crying out, incoherent, that the hand that isn’t smacking him is fisted in his collar. The renegade’s got to be augmented, somehow, no one’s ever been able to hold him down and hurt him like this before.

The assault stops almost as suddenly as it starts, and he can hear himself scream for one clear and totally humiliating moment. He clenches his jaw and cuts himself off in the next moment, or tries to, and at least succeeds in letting out nothing worse than a ragged, hoarse moan.

“Gorgeous, bro,” the renegade murmurs. “That’s right, dude, just let go. I got you now.” 

Mike whimpers. The techie climbs off the mattress and Mike jerks after him, is brought up short by his collar, makes another helpless, involuntary noise.

“Settle down, I’m just getting—ah, there—” the techie settles back on the bed and there’s a quiet _click_ of something snapping open. Mike jumps when fingers touch him again, cold now, slick and dripping. They paint a bright cool line across his burning skin, trace down the crack of his ass and—press—“ _There_ we go, good. Haha, yeah, good boy, just let go, I got you...”

Mike shudders and squirms, head spinning with the overload of sensations, the tightness of the collar pulling him short however he tries to move, the cramping in his shoulders at being pulled back by the cuffs, the way his ass aches and burns, his dick throbs, the bone-deep bruise on his knee, the hand rubbing soft circles against his overheated skin and the two slick, cool fingers pressing into him, relentless, stinging even with the lube. 

Then the fingers twist, rub back and forth, find something inside him that aches in a whole new way, and Mike _yells._  The techie just laughs at him and rubs at it harder, fast and brutal, wrenching the noise right out of Mike’s throat. It feels so _good_ , but it’s too much, he can’t control this, he can’t stop it, can’t even slow it down, doesn’t actually want to. He shoves back up against it for more and moans into the mattress, feels tears streak humiliatingly down his face.   

The fingers are removed and Mike’s got just enough time for his stomach to drop before he feels something a lot thicker press at his rim, dripping with slick. The techie grabs Mike’s hips with that hot iron grip and shoves in, brutal and unapologetic, opening him up with just his dick.

It hurts a lot. It’s amazing.

“Shit, you’re so tight like this,” the renegade murmurs, breathing hard, bent over Mike’s back. “I could fucking wreck you, dude. I bet I could tear you apart right now and you’d let me, _damn_ , you’re incredible.”

Mike moans into the mattress, incoherent with need, and squirms in the guy’s grip. But the techie only laughs, breathlessly, adjusts his hold, and pulls back out. 

“Nnn _nnh,_ ” Mike protests, then yelps when more cold lube is pushed into his ass, until it drips down his legs, and then the techie—the amazing brilliant _genius_ techie—uses all the extra slick to grab his dick with, and pumps it as he pushes his own dick back into Mike. He starts to thrust, steady and unyielding, the hand still on Mike’s hip holding on hard enough that Mike can’t do any thrusting of his own, can’t do anything about the grip on his dick but be jolted forwards and back with each stroke of the renegade’s dick inside him.  

He’s gonna have so many bruises tomorrow, his hip and his throat and his leg and his ass and somewhere inside him, if a guy can even bruise where he’s getting pounded by the techie, he doesn’t know, but it’s intense enough it feels like he should. 

The renegade’s breath grows harsh and unsteady and he starts to lose his rhythm, speeding up, bending lower over Mike’s back. Mike can feel every breath against the sensitive skin behind his ear, one more layer of sensation on top of too many already, and then the guy turns his head just a little, mouth dragging wet and warm over his neck, and digs his teeth in. Sucks hard. It’s too much, way too much, and Mike hits a brutal climax with it, bucking helplessly against every point of unyielding restraint.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” the techie swears, quiet but vicious, bites him again, pounds into him in fast, shallow thrusts, erratic, agonizing in probably the best way Mike’s ever been hurt. He can feel the guy hit his own climax, a wrenching full-body shudder, a hoarse scream muffled by Mike’s own flesh and the hot wet pulse of the guy’s come inside of him, the way his hand squeezes down way too hard on Mike’s softening dick. It drags out the disorienting aftershocks of Mike’s own climax until he’s pretty sure he’s actually crying, but he can’t stop, can hardly remember why he’d want to stop. It’s just too much.  

Finally—eventually—the techie pulls out of him, lets his dick go, lets his hip go. Mike slumps over sideways, and whimpers vaguely when that makes everything throb.

“Ah, wow,” the techie says, hoarsely. “Fuck... look at you, oh, wow. Just look at you.” He combs his fingers through Mike’s hair, runs his thumb wetly over Mike’s mouth. Mike realizes dimly that his whole face is damp with tears and sweat and drool, that he’s bit his lip at some point, that there might be some blood in the mess too, that he’s kind of a mess all over. He feels shattered.

“I’m gonna untie you now,” the guy says, gently, and starts to work on his collar. “Yeah, there we go. You’re fine. Let me get at your cuffs... good. Awesome. Roll your arms for me...? Right, great, you’re doing great.”

“Mmnh,” Mike contributes. He can hardly keep his eyes open. He had to do something, he’s pretty sure—had to drag this guy back to Deluxe. It was important. “I... Chuck, I gotta... uhh...”

“You don’t _gotta_ anything, dude,” the renegade—his target, his—Chuck, his best friend—says, and kisses his temple. Strokes his hair again. “We’re good, Mikey, we’re done.”

“Mm. Really...?” 

“Yeah, it’s cool. It’s good. That was so good, dude, you did great, it was awesome. You’re awesome.”

“Oh... okay. Cool.” Mike smiles into the mattress. He did a good job, his mission, Chuck’s happy. “Didn’t hurt you... right...?” 

“Nothing that wasn’t fun, bro. I’m _fine_. You’re looking pretty wrecked, though.” 

“‘S fun, s’fine. M’good.” 

“You’re good,” Chuck agrees. “I’ll clean up, ok?” 

“M’kay,” Mike agrees. He kind of wishes he still had the collar on, but it’d hardly make a difference. He probably couldn’t get off the cot if his life depended on it. Chuck pulls his boots and pants the rest of the way off, helps him get free of his cadet’s shirt. Wipes his legs and butt off with something soft and wet in a different, cleaner way than the lube, gently pushes him off to the side and does other stuff with the sheet and blankets and whatever. Mike drifts, and only half-wakes up when Chuck climbs back onto the cot with him, throws a warm, heavy arm over his side.

“Nex’ time _you_ c’n be th’ cadet,” he mumbles. “I quit, th’ job’s a pain n’the butt.”

Chuck’s huffs a quiet laugh, and Mike pulls him into a long-overdue kiss, inexpressibly happy to be exactly who and where he is: one more dirty Motorcity renegade rolling around down here in the dark. From the way Chuck kisses him back, he likes it just fine, too. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Raskolnikov felt sick, but he couldn't say why_  
>  _When he saw his face reflected in his victim's twinkling eye_  
>  _Some things you'll do for money and some you'll do for fun_  
>  _But the things you do for love_  
>  _Are going to come back to you one by one..._  
>  —The Mountain Goats, _Love, Love, Love_


End file.
